The Wind Hovers

The Wind Hovers

Short Fiction

The wind stays over the deck as the ship moves farther and farther into the open sea. Heavy cartloads of merchandise are loaded above inside the ship swaying with the ships movement.

Isra the son of the chief navigator finds this beach beautiful and mesmerizing. His father would tell him to stay becuase he believes it to be promising. But still, Isra hesistates. Doubt gnaws at him. He is too particular about food, meticulous in ordering his little quarters, disciplined yet a thinker. Overthinker sometimes. He thinks about his life, or rather the life that has passed by him.

It has been several years since I first heard this story. The theme took years to manifest in my mind. Back in the day, we were relaxed, almost as if like we were headless horsemen drifting from one place to another to visit most of their friends and family. Some of the seasons slipped without notice but our anticipation of meeting remained. Our interests could have been different yet the people and things we cared for remained the same.

Wind is still there hovering. The butterfly will come down almost where the gate is situated to start seeing everything that catches its eye. And then, the two siblings appear one being married and the other remaining unmarried.

In the afternoon, we came back from school, had lunch at home and enjoyed the rest of the day in the garden, immersed in the memories of childhood. \n\nThe wind brought in fresh breeze along with uncertainty.

2

The wind lingers over the deck because the deliver staggers similarly into the open sea. Above, heavy cartloads of products sway with the vessel`s movement.  Isra, the son of the chief navigator, unearths this seashore mesmerizing. His father encourages him to stay, believing it to be an area of promise. But Isra hesitates. Doubt gnaws at him. He is specificabout his food, meticulous in his habits—disciplined, but deeply contemplative. He broods over his past, reflecting at the years that have slipped by.  It has been numerous years considering the fact that I first heard this story. The subject matter took time to settle in my mind. Back then, we had been carefree, similar to wandering cowboys drifting inside and outof cities wherein maximum of our buddies and own circle of relatives lived. Some seasons handed unnoticed, however the anticipation of reuniting in no way faded. Our pastimes may also have shifted, but the people we cherished, the matters we held dear, remained unchanged.  The wind nonetheless hovers. This is the instant while the butterfly will flutter to the the front gate, pausing to take in the entirety it sees. The seesaw, long left at an incline, waits. And then, the 2 siblings arrive—one married, the other not.  That afternoon, we might go back from faculty, have lunch at home, and spend the relaxation of the day withinside the garden, misplaced withinside the easy joys of childhood.  2   The wind drifted in, wearing an air of unease. Butterflies flitted aimlessly around, their fragile wings brushing in opposition to a crumpled chips packet peeking from his coat pocket.  He becomethe first to attain for the door. A school bag lay there, tagged with the word “Negative.” A guy, unaware of its significance, passed it over to him. He time-honored it with outquestion. Somewhere withinside the commotion, others took the bag, setting it lower backwherein it at first belonged. He had no concept what it meant.  Then, a memory stirred. He recalled travelling the entrance of the first platform, then the nineteenth. There had beenentrances. At one in all them, a beggar pleaded for food. Without hesitation, he reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the chips packet, and provided it. It become a easy gesture, but, in that moment, he felt as though he had been talking to a god.  The reality remained hidden. The other man smiled.  As he walked on, a long queue began forming behind him. The crowd swelled, voices murmuring. He touched the bag again—this time, the tag read “Positive.”  He become the one.  The whispers intensified, developing into shouts. “He is the one!” they cried.  And then, the curtains lifted.  A sit back ran through him. Had his sins caught up with

……..

3

In the lobby, a thread of people waited, their patience stretching thin. It took Isra half an hour to fully grasp his surroundings, his mind preoccupied with his destination. The unruly wind that had once carried him adrift now seemed to pause, awaiting a second messenger to propel the journey forward. The deck, once bustling, had emptied, save for a few sailors absorbed in a scattered game of puzzles. These were not everyday scenes, yet after a few moments, Izra found himself slowly acclimating to this unfamiliar setting.There’s an emotionally disarming quality to the music of TRACE. The disposition of breezy synthpop melodies intertwined with the delicate honesty in her vocals easily evokes recollection of both our fondest memories and those we’d hoped were long forgotten. What began as an artistic catharsis for a young woman with an acoustic guitar and an old Casio resonated into shared moments of introspection

Part 2

These are stories from our childhood, when our parents indulged our smallest whims—memories tinted with the scents of wood smoke from my cousin’s backyard oven, where she burned logs in preparation for an impending feast. My uncle, an old wrestler still brimming with strength, took it upon himself to fill out the invitation cards, his hand steady and tireless. The stack of cards seemed endless, but he remained undaunted.

That summer, Mark had stepped out after a shower, not expected to return until evening. We moved between hotels across the country, a time of reconstruction in the wake of war. Many cottages, once reduced to rubble, were slowly rising again. The heat was relentless. We made as little noise as possible when entering our room—a stark contrast to the dim, cramped spaces we had endured the previous winter. In our group, we had fancied as the smartest couple, or at least I had, before learning every hidden good in the other.

Gregor Ilene, the elder, and his sister were expected in the evening. A gentleman collector, he had promised to show me a few old albums before selling them to a secondhand dealer. I had hoped to negotiate, to drive a hard bargain, but in the end, I obeyed my squeam. He relented, withdrawing the albums at my plea. It was a season of music and books beneath the vast shade of the Carpathian Mountains, beyond Timiș. That year, I reread Faulkner—a strange, looping return to familiar pages. For a brief moment, I sympathized with Joe Christmas, but soon, even that sentiment faded into a passing fantasy, a fleeting identification that never fully took root.

That evening, we were five, gathered for supper at a country lodge adorned with cowboy paintings. The owner, a devoted enthusiast of the Wild West, had long conducted business near the Mexican border. He spoke of his family—his son, his daughter, and his stepson, who had drowned while swimming in a lake. A pastor by calling, he lived modestly with his wife and two young children. He also practiced as an apothecary but never charged his patients a fee. Instead, a glass donation box with a small opening sat in his consultation room, where clients could leave contributions in the canister as they saw fit. Some left nothing, yet he greeted all with the same warm smile.

In the lower slopes of the Cordillera, a small community of shepherds and farmers carved their existence from the land, their lives shaped by its demands. In stark contrast, luxury resorts offered indulgence—pools, spas, extravagant cuisine. Hotels went to great lengths to entertain their guests with daily activities. The staff at ours was competent, though two stood out. One introduced herself as Rebecca, her presence unexpectedly striking. My partner, meanwhile, was absorbed in composing verses, drifting between poetry and his attempts to refresh his Romanian and Italian.

The hotel offered its distractions—bingo, karaoke, dance parties, seasonal spa discounts—but I was elsewhere. I had spent the day scouring the streets, seeking clients for my trade, yet nothing came of it. I longed for tea and biscuits, but my wealthy cousin was staying nearby, and I hesitated to disturb him. I had arrived just moments too late; two others had claimed the last opportunity before I could.

The roads in this region were fine looking but  treacherous—clumsy, weather-beaten paths winding through small forests between villages and towns. Encounters with wild animals were not unheard of. If you came across a tiger or a bear on your way to town, you were advised not to be surprised. A penknife might serve as a last resort, not to harm the beast—Lord forbid such an act—but for self-defense. They say that no wild animal can outlast a determined human in a long-distance chase. If you have the endurance for a marathon, strategy could be your salvation: darting between trees, prolonging the pursuit until the beast tires. But such a feat is perilous, foolish even. A wiser traveler would find another way to escape.

They frequenty envisioned thick -walled houses and castles adorned with sharp designs of ivory or the zari works of India, and it was set in a hall filled with prismatic honeycombs at corners and Shakespearean classic curses that echoed in the lobby when things felt unattainable Gregor was in Transylvania, where his grandparents spoke a mixture of Germanic though they had roots in the Magyar lands probably one of his great-great-grandfathers was a count—someone who had a voice in the government. Certain books mentioned their names, mostly the journals of church fathers, and it was a time of cultural and political transition when his grandparents  lived in a beautiful garden later devastated by war. Good bracelets his grandfather had were expensive, and there hung his photo on the wall, bearing a stern expression and insignias, so I’ll have to save for the wild cedars and pines, oak, and elm without desires. Ancient well trodden paths wind between them, leading to a palatial building half-ruined by time—a photo with a rare set of gold bracelets , where once I visited and felt time stood still for a moment, and perhaps I will visit again like an old-time pilgrim.

-To continue